Just Transport
by izzygone
Summary: "Don't move. Don't turn around. Don't even look at me." Sherlock felt something pointed against his back. A gun. *Warning for mild dub con and gun play.*


Author's Note: Yeah, I did it again... instead of following through on Quarantine, I've avoided responsibility and written another dark!fic. Sorry, guys. Please don't be disappointed with me! :(

Just as a warning.. this fic features some dubious consent... sorta. Let's just say, Sherlock doesn't resist that hard. And it all works out in the end, I promise.

* * *

"Don't move. Don't turn around. Don't even look at me."

Sherlock felt something pointed against his back. A gun.

But how? Five minutes ago, when he'd picked up his Stradivarius and began to play, he'd been 100% alone. Even John was away, down at the local watching match with Lestrade.

It wasn't like him not to notice someone, specifically someone trying to _harm him_, sneaking up the stairs and through their sitting room. To be fair, every light in the flat was off and Sherlock had been quite enthralled by his current composition as he stared out the window onto the quiet street he knew so well by now.

Well. That would teach him to try to turn his mind off, wouldn't it?

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked. His head was turned slightly to the side, the violin resting under his chin, but it was far too dark for him to see his attacker's face. And of course he had no weapons in range save his instrument which was easily worth more to him than his own life.

"Don't speak. Put your hands up." The rough press of the steel into his ribs never wavered.

Sherlock nodded, slowly lifting the bow away from the strings where he'd paused as soon as he'd heard the intruder, just seconds before the barrel of a gun brushed his back. He weighed the bow in his hand, testing it and considering its viability as a weapon. Alas, no, it was too delicate to even buy him time. He lifted the Stradivarius with his left hand, prying it away from his shoulder and moving it into the air. The attacker snatched it from him and, without moving the gun an inch, settled it down delicately in the chair next to the window. Well, that was a mercy.

"Drop the bow." The voice demanded, and Sherlock complied, the bow hitting the floor with a loud clang that seemed to reverberate through the otherwise silent flat. The force of the impact caused the bow to spring and bounce, once, twice before settling and leaving the two men back in silence.

Sherlock waited, his arms spread wide out to either side of him. Not entirely unlike the position he would most likely take, should he decide to, say… end his life by driving off a rooftop.

"Bend over." Came the next instruction from his attacker.

"Why should I?" Sherlock asked, a hint of resistance colouring his voice.

The stab of the gun barrel became a little firmer, "I said no talking. Bend over. Place your hands against the windows."

Slowly, like a robot, Sherlock did as commanded, turning his chin just slightly – not enough to threaten a glance at his attacker, but enough to reevaluate his surroundings. No, there was definitely nothing weapon worthy in his immediate vicinity. If he could reach the desk… but no, the attacker had plenty of time to react to a move in that direction. Instead, he obediently placed his hands against the glass in front of him, about shoulder width apart, but ignored the first and primary demand, "This is a bit of a risk, isn't it? You know they can see us from the street. What if someone gets curious? No doubt the flat is unlocked." Sherlock was pressing his luck but if his attacker were foolish enough –

But the villain just laughed, "I'm not an idiot, Sherlock, with the lights out there and none on in here… no one can see you. No one is coming to rescue you."

Right, smart then. Interesting to note the attacker knew his name, though. It ruled out any spontaneity in this event. His attacker knew him. Of course, he'd suspected that from the beginning – not just anyone can get into 221B unnoticed. Another tactic, "I have a flatmate, you know. He might come home any second."

Another laugh, "I believe I told you not to speak." There was an audible "click" and a gentle twisting of the gun in his back.

Sherlock wondered vaguely if the gun had a manual safety, but no, it was more likely that was the sound of a bullet being chambered. Of course, there was hardly enough data to determine for certain. One could hardly tell a model of a gun from just the touch of the barrel. Then again, perhaps one could? Research for another time, perhaps. He filed it away as a potential experiment.

Sherlock decided to obey, this time, and waited, listening to the heavy breathing of the man behind him. You can't know _everything_ from a person's breathing pattern, but you can deduce a lot. This man was older, mid-forties maybe. Slight panting indicating excitement or physical exertion, but judging by the stealthy manner the attacker used to enter the flat, it was more likely excitement. Ragged breaths, not smooth or regulated. Nerves? Unlikely, clearly this man was well trained. Perhaps… arousal?

"Spread your legs." The man touched the inside of Sherlock's thighs and Sherlock gulped and hissed. It was a strange shock, being touched there.

"What are you planning to do to me?" Sherlock asked, stilling himself entirely. He was… what, exactly? Scared? He couldn't really say.

"Should I have brought a gag?" The man behind him replied and Sherlock swallowed, shaking his head and finally parting his legs as his attacker persisted gripping his leg with force.

The attacker took a step back suddenly, taking his gun with him and Sherlock released a breath he hadn't been aware he'd been holding. Still, he dared not move.

"Look at you. God, you're gorgeous. How has anyone ever resisted this?" He ran his hand over Sherlock's arse in a gentle caress before gripping at his hip.

Sherlock bit at his lower lip to prevent from speaking. He didn't like where this was going at all but, god, what could he do? His eyes desperately searched the darkened floor beneath him. Perhaps it would be worth the risk to the Strad to escape this…

Except, of course it wasn't. Nothing about this encounter indicated the man intended to kill him. Except for the gun, that is.

The men stepped forward again, the barrel of the gun pointing hard against Sherlock's ribs again as he leaned over, whispering into the detective's ear, "I'm going to undo your trousers. If you move, I'll puncture your lung."

Sherlock swallowed again and nodded. He could feel the attacker's erection pressed hard against his back side, and his throat went dry. God, how could this be happening to him? Deftly and with a hand that indicated he had a lot of practice in this field, Sherlock's attacker moved his right hand to Sherlock's front, skating his palm along it the whole way and causing Sherlock to involuntarily shiver. He undid the clasp of Sherlock's trousers and dropped the zipper in a single motion, all one-handed. Yes, this man was practiced at this movement. Sherlock struggled to still the panic boiling up his throat.

Without another word, his attacker let the trousers slide down, settling on Sherlock's lower thighs, caught by the spread of his legs. Behind him, the intruder hummed gently, seemingly entertained enough as he continued his motions, lowering his hand to cup Sherlock through his pants.

Sherlock whimpered. God, he didn't want to be touched _there_. But his body was just transport, he reminded himself. What happened to his genitalia was no more important or different than what happened to the rest of his body. He could shut himself off from this, like he did whenever he felt pain or discomfort.

Except, well, this was a bit different.

For all his stern words, the attacker was gentle, prodding, and exploratory. He smoothed his hands over Sherlock's bollocks, and Sherlock felt unexpected, _unwanted_ heat in that area. Blood was rushing down to his cock and, _fuck_, he did not want to be hard right now. It was some kind of base, hormonal involuntary defensive reaction. God, what use was his body if he couldn't control it? The intruder kept fondling, wrapping his hand around Sherlock's traitorous cock, the roughness of the attacker's calloused hands smoothed by the satin of Sherlock's expensive pants.

_Calloused hands_, Sherlock clung to the observation, trying to use his powers of deduction to ground him, to root him far, far away from the sensations in his groin.

"Oh, Sherlock," The intruder's voice was low and musky, coloured by obvious arousal and excitement, "You do want me."

Sherlock gritted his teeth, forced himself not to speak. Not because he wanted to obey his attacker's earlier demands but because he wasn't entirely certain how his voice would come out. Weak, probably, laced with some defiling and perverse arousal. God, he hated himself right now.

Because the intruder was stroking him, smooth and slow strokes up and down his half-hard shaft. Sherlock let his head drop and closed his eyes, struggling against the entirely unwarranted desire to rut up into a hand which was not his own.

Fuck, he needed to get out of this, why wasn't he struggling more? Oh yes, the gun. He still felt it against the bones in his ribcage. The sensation of it was dulled by the arousal blossoming in his cock.

Without warning, his attacker removed his hand, releasing Sherlock's mostly hard cock, and Sherlock almost _growled_. Fuck, some part of him wanted that hand _back_. He needed to detach himself from that part. With his eyes closed, he started naming off the periodic table of elements, with scientific name, proton and electron totals for each.

He was only on his third noble gas when the hand of his attacker wove its way under his pants and tugged.

"Please," Sherlock said, his voice shocking even himself as it came unbidden from his mouth, "Don't."

The intruder only laughed again as he drew the pants down roughly to where they settled, nestled into Sherlock's trousers. Then the hand was back on Sherlock's cock and he hissed_. Fuck, oh yes_, that was good but so bad because no, no, _no_. He didn't want this. He didn't need this. Why couldn't this man have just been an average mugger?

The callouses were more prominent now without the soothing barrier of Sherlock's satin pants. The touch wasn't unpleasant, though. It was rougher than Sherlock's own hand but different in a way that excited his cock which had long stopped pretending it wasn't interested in human contact, even if Sherlock's mind insisted on maintaining the façade.

"Oh, Sherlock," The man behind him whispered breathily, his hands still gentle on his captive as he leaned forward and rutted slowly against Sherlock's now exposed arse. Sherlock filed this away with the other strange behavior of the attacker: the kindness to the violin, the gentleness with which he touched Sherlock's erection, the ease with which the attack entered the flat unseen.

Sherlock coughed in a sudden exhale, like clearing his throat and perhaps that woke the attacker from whatever kind place he had been because the gun suddenly dug into Sherlock's back with renewed vigor and the attacker dropped his hand from Sherlock's cock.

"Don't move." The intruder warned as he backed away a step, leaving Sherlock's arse feeling suddenly exposed without the man pressing hard against him. The air of the flat was strangely cold and Sherlock _almost_ wanted the press of the fabric against himself again.

The whole world went frightfully still as the attacker, again one-handedly, unzipped his own trousers. Sherlock didn't need to see behind himself to know what that meant and his vision went a little white and faded on the edges.

"Please," he found himself saying, "You don't have to do this."

But of course he received no sympathy from his attacker who just replied, "You might want to rethink opening that mouth again or I'll have to find something to fill it with."

The threat was not idle or empty as Sherlock felt bare skin against his exposed arse and _oh god, oh god,_ the intruder rubbed his erection against the bare skin of Sherlock's cleft and Sherlock froze.

_Okay, okay. Get a grip_, Sherlock reminded himself_. It's just transport. It's all just transport_. Whatever happened to his body, excepting mortal wounds, was outside his concern. He would simply delete this. Whatever happened, he would delete it. He wasn't the type, after all, to be emotionally affected by minute traumas of the body.

Still there was an odd feeling of shame and fear creeping up his veins, into his stomach and throat. Another thing he decided: he'd never, ever, _ever_ tell a single person about this.

Behind him, the man gripped Sherlock's arse and stroked the skin there, admiring, "I never could resist this arse," the man said. Sherlock filed it away.

The man's gestures moved downward, around so he was stroking Sherlock's perineum and _oh god, fuck_ Sherlock's vision exploded with sparks and he quivered with need. Need of what? Sherlock couldn't say, but he was suddenly on fire with a desire unlike anything else. He wanted to put one of his hands on his cock. He wanted to stroke himself because he was overwhelmed, on fire and desperate.

The man behind him chuckled, running his pointer finger along Sherlock's cleft, once more over Sherlock's oversensitive perineum then over the little ring of muscle there.

"Shhh, shhhh," The intruder hushed him because Sherlock hadn't realized he was letting out a low keening and his breath was caught in his throat, "_Relax_," he said, his finger now teasing at Sherlock's entrance.

It felt dry and unusual and exciting and _god_, he didn't really want this. All he wanted was for it to be over. It was just transport and Sherlock was floating above it. It would be over soon, god, not soon enough and he'd hide himself in the loo and scrub himself raw and never, ever speak of this because it would be deleted, gone.

But that finger, oh, that finger, prodding at the little circle with some insistency. The attacker lifted it to his mouth – _DNA, there'll be traces_ – wetting it before return to Sherlock's hole. Now it felt different. Now it felt… good. Sherlock wanted to resist. He wanted to protest, ask _why are you doing this?_ Plead, _please stop_. But reason prevented him. It was best, perhaps, to suck it up. It'd be over quicker that way. Sherlock willed himself to relax as the finger slipped in with more ease than expected, probing in and out, caressing Sherlock's insides and searching for something, searching for – _oh_, yes, his attacker found his prostrate and stroked at it, pulling out a low and frustrated grunt from Sherlock's unwilling throat. The intruder pulled the finger back, brought his hand back to his mouth while Sherlock forced his eyes open, blinked, tried to latch onto the floor because he felt himself floating away with the pleasure of it. Then, without warning, the finger was back. No, two fingers. They slipped into him with ease and started a gentle pistoning, each movement alternating a stroke against Sherlock's inflamed prostate, "Oh Sherlock, you're so ready for me already."

Sherlock cleared his throat again as he filed those words away as well.

The attacker straightened more at the sound, clearing his throat as well, "Right." He seemed to collect himself, "Don't even think about moving." He pulled back again, releasing his fingers from Sherlock's arse and pulling a deep moan from the detective that might have been interpreted as ungrateful.

The gun was suddenly missing from Sherlock's back and he frowned. Why would the intruder –

There was a different kind of clicking noise now, not the sound of a safety or a bullet but a cap. Sherlock swallowed heavily, god, was this really happening to him?

There was a jarring "clang" as something was thrown across the room – the container of lube, _fingerprints_ – and Sherlock almost turned to look but stopped himself just in time. No reason to make the attacker angry.

Next, Sherlock felt something sticky and wet smearing swiftly over his entrance. A lubed thumb, Sherlock deduced, but no fingers entered him. No further preparation? Maybe this intruder (Sherlock couldn't bring himself to even think the word _rapist_, it was all too much and shamed him too low) had had enough waiting?

And yes, it seemed that way because next – oh god, yes, here – the attacker was pressing his erection firmly against him, guiding his naked cock – _more DNA_ – against Sherlock's tight, lightly slicked hole. Sherlock bit at his lower lip, holding back his initial grunt of distress.

Inch by inch, Sherlock's attacker forced himself inside Sherlock's body, causing his body to shake and involuntarily twitch. Sherlock closed his eyes; he felt so full, it felt as if just opening his eyes would tear him apart and cause him to explode. Ridiculous, of course, but Sherlock kept them tightly lidded just in case.

Finally, his attacker bottomed out and stopped, panting. It was strange, but Sherlock could feel the cock inside him twitching with excitement. It was a strange thing to have a something alive inside you. There was breath on his ear again as the intruder leaned over Sherlock again, "I'm not going to take it easy on you." As he said the words, the man pulled back halfway out, only to slam right back in, causing Sherlock to cry out, "Keep your mouth shut if you know what's good for you."

And that was the last thing Sherlock heard him say because the intruder made good on that threat, immediately beginning to pound Sherlock's arse without any of the previous gentleness. It was painful, but not how Sherlock might have expected. It didn't _hurt_, but it burned with friction in a pleasant, _oh please right there_ kind of way. Sherlock couldn't explain it, but it seemed the mysterious intruder knew just the angle to hit at his prostate, teasing but rough strokes that cause Sherlock's insides to coil like he was on a spring being crushed. God knew what would happen when the spring was released.

Sherlock tried his best to hold his tongue and pressed his hands hard against the window, trying to cool himself using the chilly London air outside against the pane, but the glass warmed under his hands and pretty soon he couldn't even feel it though he did briefly calculate how much force would be required to break it from his position – at least four times what he was capable of, useless.

Then he felt a hand on his cock, and oh god, his attacker was touching him, hand – left hand this time, was his attacker ambidextrous? – wet and slick from the lube and tugging at him in time with the rough thrusting. It stole all the air from Sherlock's lungs and he cried out from the sudden sensation of it.

Now the gun was at his ribcage again, a warning for silence though the attacker couldn't seem to form the words to say so. No need, Sherlock could take the hint.

Sherlock wanted desperately for this to be over, for himself not to be excited by this, for his own erection to deflate and to not want to grind back against the cock in his arse. He was ashamed and confused and god, he could feel his orgasm bearing down on him. There was no way to stop it with the prick in his arse and the calloused hands perfecting a rhythm around him and –

"Please," Sherlock was begging again, _god_, that was tedious – "Harder."

Oh, that was unusual. Now he wanted more? But no, he just wanted it over, he would encourage his attacker if that's what it took – "Oh _fuck_, Sherlock, don't talk, you know I can't –"

"Do it," Sherlock's voice was dark and prodding, "Fuck me harder, you know you want to," He was egging the man on and it felt good, so good, like he was in control of the situation though the gun to his back said otherwise, "Don't stop, don't stop," He was keening and genuine now, arching his back and moving back against the cock in his arse and forward into the hand around his sticky erection. "Come inside me," – _DNA_ – "I want you to." He twitched and clenched his muscles internally, both for his own sake and for the attacker's.

"_Jesus_," The man behind him replied, speeding up his strokes over Sherlock's eager cock, rubbing his finger over the slit at the top, spreading the precome around with practiced ease, using it to ease the friction, "Oh god, _Sherlock_."

Now Sherlock couldn't even hear, couldn't even reply, he was so overwhelmed with the sensation of the fingers on his cock, the constant rubbing against his prostate but he managed to clench his muscles again, effectively tightening around the man inside him who keened and grunted Sherlock's name as he came, the sound so rich and harsh it threw Sherlock over the edge, too. His cock twitched and spasmed, releasing ropes of come into his attacker's hands as they milked him.

Then Sherlock collapsed against the window and the man behind him pulled out gently, taking the gun with him away from Sherlock's back as he dropped to the floor.

They both breathed heavily, totally spent and unable to move. Finally, Sherlock, too, slid to the floor.

"Wow." The man next to him spoke and Sherlock nodded, "That was brilliant."

"You fell out of character." Sherlock replied, still panting.

"You can't imagine how difficult it is to concentrate when you're wiggling your naked arse at me," John groaned, playfully hitting Sherlock in the shoulder.

"We'll just have to _practice_, I suppose," Sherlock smirked, tugging John closer so he could lean against the solider.

"I promise to keep trying until I perfect it," John smiled back, stroking Sherlock's hair.

"I expect the very best," Sherlock said against his flatmate's shoulder, struggling against a sudden sleepiness. John would dislike it very much if he lay he much longer, leaking come out his arse and down his thighs. It wasn't sanitary. "Next time, you'll have to wear a condom. The DNA material…" he muttered.

"You couldn't pay me enough," John groaned, but Sherlock didn't respond, just grunted as his eye lids fluttered. John laughed, recognizing his flatmate drifting off, "Alright, up you. Go take a shower, and I'll fix us a cuppa."

"But I need to record the data…" Sherlock grumbled, though he didn't look much like he planned to record anything.

"We'll do it together after you're cleaned up." John stood, lifting his flatmate who resisted like a petulant child, "Maybe we can even practice again."

Sherlock grinned. That perked him up more than tea.


End file.
